


Still Waters

by SerenePhenix



Series: Sensitive Re-Collection and Tales of a lonely Wanderer [6]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenePhenix/pseuds/SerenePhenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was confused. He did not know who he was anymore. Who to turn to, who to speak to? He was the enemy but he wasn't alone anymore. That in itself was a comfort greater than he had expected.</p><p>Second part of the Tales of a lonely Wanderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Waters

Still waters

* * *

_No one can see their reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see.  
~Taoist proverb by Zhuangzi_

  


* * *

The lake which he was standing at was peaceful. No ripples, no waves. A dark reflecting surface for the pale moon, that was hanging in the sky, enveloping everything - from the leafy trees to the cold naked rocks - into a wintry and otherworldly light. It was peaceful at the still water and the cold season had yet to come.

Pitch stood still as though he too had become part of the scenery like the silent woods surrounding him. He drank in this silence, so different from the one he had escaped not too long ago after the butterfly had unlocked memories that had been snatched away from him. His pale blue companion was resting on his shoulders, minuscule wings flapping from time to time.

Pitch had not asked for it to come with him and still it had stayed no matter if he gave it attention or not. It just went along like a stray animal that had taken a liking to a stranger who had been kind enough to feed it once.

The sight of the delicate beetle hurt too much for him to bear at the moment.

He looked towards the moon, the home of one of the last to have seen the golden age and whose life he had condemned to be bound to an unmoving object in the skies. He remembered almost everything. He knew that some memories would never return, lost in his fear induced madness and drowned in thoughts as dark as the night.

Tsar Lunar was now most certainly a full grown man, much like he had been when the dark shadows had taken control of his mind. He smiled bitterly as he looked down at himself. He had had ashen skin and a dark robe when he had been unwillingly cast into the black abyss for a second time. Now after ridding himself of the influences that had possessed him for millennia, he was grey.

He let his gaze return to the pond, leaning forward slightly so he could catch a glimpse of his new image. The face he saw looked nothing like the one of a Nightmare King – or that of a former hero. His ashen skin had just turned a darker shade of grey, nor really black nor truly light.

Just something in between. Someone in between his past and present. In between good and bad.

He turned and twisted his neck, scrutinizing his hollow cheeks and sunken in eyes. His eyes had changed the most of all. No longer were they interveined by the grey that was now adorning his skin, instead they were of a very clear gold – sharp, open and no longer clouded by the desire to bring about absolute darkness and fear.

He raised a bony hand and shaking from the effort summoned a bit of the black sand he had prided himself so much with having mastered. It twisted feebly but headed his command. Balling his hand into a fist, thus letting go of his hold on the black grains, he watched as the wind carried it away.

He could still feel fear all around, could still tell he was the very essence of it but he was no longer its undisputed master. he had no desire to be it anymore. These things he had left behind in the lair, suffering immense pain because of it. He breathed in deeply, feeling as though his lungs could expend endlessly now that a heavy weight was gone from his now sharply protruding shoulders.

His eyes watched the pale round satellite. He felt like he should say something. But what was there to say when all he could do was admit once again his terrible crimes, unable to change what had been done? He didn't know and so he stayed silent.

He had wronged many, just like many had wronged him. But nothing they did never could measure to what he had done.

He had killed thousands and thousands, turned too many to count into Nightmare Men, destroyed more worlds than any other force of the cosmos and had come to lose more than he could have ever gained.

The butterfly hovered before his face before darting towards the middle of the pond, bathing in the reflected light of the moon, its blue glow intensified.

As Pitch watched it, how it elegantly floated up and down, he felt a surge of emotions so strong it was like someone was driving the diamond dagger into a heart he had recently regained. He sunk to his knees, fingers gripping and scratching at his scalp with the ferocity of an animal in agony. These emotions were so raw, so untainted because they had been cast away from his being for so long that he could barely bear feeling them.

Pitchiner missed his daughter with whom he often had marveled at such delicate beings as the blue butterfly. His sweet little daughter, whose fate was unknown to him. The thought that maybe all those years ago he had turned her into one of his servants, not knowing, unable to recognize her was a torture he would never even wish his most lethal enemy.

He was at a point where he truly wished to fade into oblivion forevermore. He knew that he could not die even if he wanted to.

Face buried in his hands in shame and self-loathing he just sat there and listened. The wind had picked up and the water was noisily gurgling.

He leapt to his feet with a start, his eyes darting around frantically. He was not ready he realized with rising anxiety.

For the first time in his existence his eyes looked up towards the one he had orphaned, seeking for help. But the Man in the Moon stayed as silent as ever and with guilt heavy on his conscious Pitch came to the conclusion that maybe it served him right.

The butterfly was at his side again, bobbing up and down with the winds and seeking refuge inside his grey robe.

Pitch turned around and made his way towards the small shadows of the trees while the air was getting chilly. He had to admit defeat. He was not ready to face anyone yet and less of all one of the Guardians that had beaten him.

He would have to wait, wait until he was healed enough as not to crumble at any moment's notice, until he truly knew if he was Pitch Black or Kozmotis Pitchiner. Until he knew his true purpose in this world. Until maybe he could find out about the whereabouts of his daughter.

He disappeared before Jack Frost even knew there had been a visitor at his pond, wanting to speak with him desperately yet unable to.

* * *

.

.

Zhuangzi was an influential Chinese philosopher. His teachings often deal with man's limited knowledge in comparison to limitless knowledge that the world around us possessed.

The quote can be interpreted in a way as to say that someone, who tries to look at himself while his feelings are in disarray will never be able to get a clear idea of who he really is.


End file.
